fat.’
I put a finger over the hairless stroke in Tomás’s eyebrow, filling in his gap.
‘Then what happened?’
Tomás pinches me, not to hurt, just as a reflex to my touching him. ‘He got angry,’ he says, slowly. ‘Really angry. Because I think he was trying to make them laugh, but they were all on my side, because we’d watched Roots in History last week. So he was all pissed off, and he punched me in the face.’
‘Your face looks fine.’
‘I know. He’s shit at punching. So I punched him in the face, and then it was a fight.’ He sighed.
‘And?’
‘And then some of his friends came in.’
‘Came in where?’
‘Into the fight. It wasn’t personal, it was just, like, they were getting into the whole fighting thing.’
I stare at him. ‘And your friends?’
Tomás stretches, looks around me and out of the window.
‘Esos bastardos pequeños ! No one stuck up for you? Not one of them?’
‘It’s . . . just school,’ he says.
‘It’s meant to be a Catholic school!’
We both think about that. We both dismiss it as a redundant factor.
He says, ‘Don’t tell Papi or Chabella.’
Tomás came home after his first day at secondary school and said he wasn’t going back. He said it standing up very straight by the kitchen table, as if he was making a formal report. Tomás was talking fact. Mami and Papi looked at each other; they had been prepared for the boy to say this.
(I had said the same kind of thing after my first day at secondary school: ‘Please don’t make me go any more, please, please, please or I promise you I will die of school! Morir ! And then you’ll see.’)
Papi went to a boys’ school too. He told Tomás to approach school using game theory; identify an aim (to survive) and two key strategies to minimise losses. He had to work out who were the strongest players and count himself as a weak player until he could make enough alliances to consider himself safe.
Mami bit her lip. She had a pupil to tutor in half an hour, but she promised Tomás that afterwards she would make him the best pasteles he’d ever had and they would talk. Tomás stood there with the strap of his schoolbag unravelling around his hand and he shook his head, meaning No, there would be no debate on the matter.
Chabella said, ‘Tomás, come now. Is it the other boys?’
Tomás said something, but we couldn’t understand him because his teeth were clattering so loudly against each other. Papi sat and looked at Tomás; he looked and looked, his gaze became abstracted somehow. Tomás put his hand to his forehead, hid his eyes, but he stayed where he was until Papi told him, ‘Say that again?’
Tomás managed, ‘It’s so cold there.’ Papi got up and checked Tomás’s face, held Tomás to him in a rough bear hug that Tomás struggled against. Contact was gaylord.
Mami said again, ‘Is it the other boys?’
Papi said, ‘Don’t you hear him? He’s cold!’
He ran Tomás a hot bath, made him undress and get into it. Tomás sat in the bath with steam rising off him in blinding waves. He shivered and said, ‘Can’t get warm.’
He kept his school scarf on, looped around his neck like a boa constrictor. He wrapped his arms around himself and jolted in silence; with each shiver he almost fell out of the bath. It was like the cold had jammed itself deep into his bones and was climbing back up atop a pneumatic drill. It was only September. In the bathroom we debated Tomás’s sanity, even though there wasn’t really room for all of us in there. Chabella cradled his head and chanted prayers and wondered aloud, ‘Has someone cursed the London baby? Someone is sending him strong memories of Cuban weather so that he cannot bear it here.’
Papi said, ‘How is it that neither of these children have inherited my excellent nervous system?’
I shouted Papi down, ‘What, what?’ and Chabella said, ‘Your nervous system, your nervous system indeed.’ She cupped her hands around
I put a finger over the hairless stroke in Tomás’s eyebrow, filling in his gap.
‘Then what happened?’
Tomás pinches me, not to hurt, just as a reflex to my touching him. ‘He got angry,’ he says, slowly. ‘Really angry. Because I think he was trying to make them laugh, but they were all on my side, because we’d watched Roots in History last week. So he was all pissed off, and he punched me in the face.’
‘Your face looks fine.’
‘I know. He’s shit at punching. So I punched him in the face, and then it was a fight.’ He sighed.
‘And?’
‘And then some of his friends came in.’
‘Came in where?’
‘Into the fight. It wasn’t personal, it was just, like, they were getting into the whole fighting thing.’
I stare at him. ‘And your friends?’
Tomás stretches, looks around me and out of the window.
‘Esos bastardos pequeños ! No one stuck up for you? Not one of them?’
‘It’s . . . just school,’ he says.
‘It’s meant to be a Catholic school!’
We both think about that. We both dismiss it as a redundant factor.
He says, ‘Don’t tell Papi or Chabella.’
Tomás came home after his first day at secondary school and said he wasn’t going back. He said it standing up very straight by the kitchen table, as if he was making a formal report. Tomás was talking fact. Mami and Papi looked at each other; they had been prepared for the boy to say this.
(I had said the same kind of thing after my first day at secondary school: ‘Please don’t make me go any more, please, please, please or I promise you I will die of school! Morir ! And then you’ll see.’)
Papi went to a boys’ school too. He told Tomás to approach school using game theory; identify an aim (to survive) and two key strategies to minimise losses. He had to work out who were the strongest players and count himself as a weak player until he could make enough alliances to consider himself safe.
Mami bit her lip. She had a pupil to tutor in half an hour, but she promised Tomás that afterwards she would make him the best pasteles he’d ever had and they would talk. Tomás stood there with the strap of his schoolbag unravelling around his hand and he shook his head, meaning No, there would be no debate on the matter.
Chabella said, ‘Tomás, come now. Is it the other boys?’
Tomás said something, but we couldn’t understand him because his teeth were clattering so loudly against each other. Papi sat and looked at Tomás; he looked and looked, his gaze became abstracted somehow. Tomás put his hand to his forehead, hid his eyes, but he stayed where he was until Papi told him, ‘Say that again?’
Tomás managed, ‘It’s so cold there.’ Papi got up and checked Tomás’s face, held Tomás to him in a rough bear hug that Tomás struggled against. Contact was gaylord.
Mami said again, ‘Is it the other boys?’
Papi said, ‘Don’t you hear him? He’s cold!’
He ran Tomás a hot bath, made him undress and get into it. Tomás sat in the bath with steam rising off him in blinding waves. He shivered and said, ‘Can’t get warm.’
He kept his school scarf on, looped around his neck like a boa constrictor. He wrapped his arms around himself and jolted in silence; with each shiver he almost fell out of the bath. It was like the cold had jammed itself deep into his bones and was climbing back up atop a pneumatic drill. It was only September. In the bathroom we debated Tomás’s sanity, even though there wasn’t really room for all of us in there. Chabella cradled his head and chanted prayers and wondered aloud, ‘Has someone cursed the London baby? Someone is sending him strong memories of Cuban weather so that he cannot bear it here.’
Papi said, ‘How is it that neither of these children have inherited my excellent nervous system?’
I shouted Papi down, ‘What, what?’ and Chabella said, ‘Your nervous system, your nervous system indeed.’ She cupped her hands around
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